enue restlessly, and in that fact she found security. The
following morning he was gone.

"Where is Denis?" old Samuel Quirk asked her, in his half-sleepy way.

"He has returned to his work. You should be a proud man, Mr. Quirk, for
I believe that Mrs. Quirk is a saint, and I am sure that Denis is a
hero."

"He should be here in Grey Town," the old man grumbled.

"He is in the best place--out there in Melbourne. He will return to Grey
Town when the time is ripe for him."

CHAPTER XXIII.

A SICK CALL.

If there is one suburb in Melbourne where a man might be excused
depression and discontent it is that undesirable and dusty part called
Tottenham. On a hot night in the summer time Tottenham gasps in the
streets. In shirt sleeves and thin blouses, not infrequently in a still
scantier attire, men, women, and children sit on doorsteps and
pavements, or collect in the small parks and open spaces, seeking fresh
air. The language on such occasions is apt to be in keeping with the
weather, for the heat excites men's tempers, and leads to unpleasant
remarks and retorts that are still less courteous, until a brawl
frequently terminates the proceedings. The neighbouring hospitals
anticipate scalp wounds and bruises after a hot spell in Tottenham.

It was on such a night that Father Desmond O'Connor, recently ordained,
and appointed curate to Father Quinlan, the parish priest of St.
Carthage's Church, went quietly and swiftly along Carrick Street in
answer to a sick call. He walked absorbed in thought, and heedless of
the groups of people whom he passed.

Desmond O'Connor had fought a severe campaign, and had triumphed. In
Tottenham he lived a quiet and uneventful life, content to do his duty
conscientiously, and pass his leisure hours with his brother-priests
and in the society of his books.

Father Desmond O'Connor was not perfect; he was a good, honest,
hard-working priest, one of that splendid army who are fighting the
Church's battles against human weakness in Australia. His brothers among
the clergy liked and respected him none the less because he was a
cheerful companion, not above an occasional joke.

Father Desmond O'Connor was, in fact, meditating a practical joke as he
hurried on his sick call this hot summer's night. His eyes were
twinkling, and his lips occasionally relaxed into a smile as he
considered the details of this piece of drollery. Once he remarked to
himself, half-audibly:

"I must con